Before I found the matchbox
filled with exes and ohs
which fluttered to the floor
like blown love when open
to be caught one by one
or picked from the fluff deliberate
as your intent and accurate
as your aim, I was kept awake by palpitations
the expectant glow of porch light
tricky as the squeak
of a wind-pushed gate.
Saradha Koirala 